by Mary Feliz
I surprised myself by leaping to the defense of our house. “Oh, it’s not that bad,” I said. “It’s a classic beauty that needs some tender loving care. We’ll settle in quickly, I’m sure. My boys will be headed to Orchard View Middle School and Orchard View High School next week.”
“I hope you’ve pre-enrolled them,” Dennis said, making a little pout with his lips. “It’s difficult to find room for students at this late date.”
“For the public schools? Don’t they have to take everyone?”
“Everyone who lives within the district will find a spot, yes. But you’ll need to show a deed or a gas bill to prove you live inside the boundaries. We’ve got the best schools in the state. All the parents want their kids to go here. You’d be surprised what people from other areas will do to sneak their kids in. You can find the details on the website outlining what paperwork we require.”
“We?”
“Oh, yes. We. I’m on the school board and am very involved in fund-raising and other important programs. I’ve got three children at Monte Viejo Elementary and a son at the middle school, where I’m the PTA treasurer. My oldest, Dante, is at the high school.”
“That’s great. You’ve got kids the same age as mine. Maybe they’ll have a chance to meet before school starts.”
“My children are consumed by athletic camps,” he said. “I doubt they’ll have time.”
“O-kay.” I dragged out the syllables as I tried to find a way to end the conversation. “Well, thanks. Nice to meet you.” I used my best manners. I was new here and it was too soon to be making enemies. But that didn’t stop me from bestowing an irreverent nickname on the self-involved fool. Henceforth, whenever he annoyed me, I’d refer to him as Mr. Snooty.
Mr. Snooty patted the pockets of his jacket while the Pekes sniffed at my ankles and left slobber on my sneakers. “I hope there is still room for your boy in the middle school. If not, you’ll have to cart him across town to the other junior high.”
“No buses?”
Mr. Snooty looked shocked. “Buses? We haven’t had buses since the 1970s. We drive our kids to school.
“Look,” he added, looking at me as if I were a hopeless case. “Here’s my card. Let me know if you have questions as you settle in.”
I was feeling storm-tossed trying to keep up with the shifts in Mr. Snooty’s demeanor. We actually had preregistered the kids for both schools, but I hadn’t been able to interject that fact into the conversation. Mr. Snooty seemed happy to assume we’d dropped the ball on those details, but Max and I were serious about our kids’ education and determined to leave nothing to chance. And what was with the business cards? Did everyone around here carry cards when they walked the dogs? If that was the case, I was out of my depth. When I walked Belle, I carried poop bags.
Mr. Snooty flapped the card in my face until I took it from him. “I’m a Realtor. If you decide you want to sell, let me know.”
I put the card in the back pocket of my jeans and looked up the road. It climbed quickly up the steep hill.
“Thanks so much,” I said with feigned cheeriness. “My family is off on a walk and I’m hoping to catch up with them. Maybe we’ll see more of you after school starts.”
Mr. Snooty waved and I headed up the hill. I turned back once and saw him peering up our driveway with his hand on the mailbox. He crouched and knelt at the base of the post. I wondered if he was the one who’d weeded the area. Nah. I could already tell he wasn’t the type. He was probably picking up after one of his dogs.
I turned my back on Mr. Snooty and I looked up toward a cleft in the mountains that separated Orchard View from the Pacific Coast. Max had told me that a thick bank of fog—the “marine layer” that served as natural air-conditioning for the San Francisco Bay Area—spilled over the top of the mountain in the late afternoon. Now, in mid-morning, it was receding as the sun heated the valley.
I caught up with my family at the top of the hill. Belle hopped around me and the boys regaled me with stories of the deer, rabbits, hares, and quail they’d seen. We walked a short way down the other side of the hill, hoping to see more wildlife, but after about fifteen minutes the boys said they were hungry. We headed back to the house together, making plans for the afternoon.
We were a hundred yards from the mailbox when it exploded with an ear-shattering boom.
Chapter 5
When you’re not sure how to tackle a cleaning or organizational problem, ask. Most people are delighted to share their expertise.
From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald
Simplicity Itself Organizing Services
Friday, August 28, Afternoon
Belle lunged, pulled the leash from Brian’s hand, and ran to glue herself to my side to protect me and receive reassurance. I knelt, held her shivering body, and felt comforted myself.
The boys ran to the smoking mailbox before I could stop them. Max dialed 9-1-1. David pushed the hanging metal door closed with the corner of his T-shirt. I’d expected shrapnel and a splintered redwood post, but the damage seemed minimal despite the enormous boom.
“Cool!” David said.
“Someone might have been hurt,” I said. “What if we’d been standing next to it?”
“I think anyone standing right next to the explosion would have been more scared than hurt,” Max said, opening and closing the mailbox door, demonstrating that it still worked. He snuffed out a smoldering spark with his foot. David whacked at the weeds with a stick, looking for other signs of fire. Brian had gone up to the house to hunt for a bucket or a hose long enough to reach the mailbox. It had been a long, hot, dry summer all over California and we were conscious of how easy it would be to start a wildfire.
Our ears were still ringing ten minutes later when Officer Paolo Bianchi pulled his Subaru to the side of the road. This afternoon he had a sailboard strapped to the roof of the car. I wondered whether he sailed in the gale-force winds and tricky currents of San Francisco Bay or if he preferred someplace calmer.
He jumped from the car and tripped, grabbing the door for balance. Ducking, he reached into the car for his iPad. He pushed his sunglasses back on his head, greeted us, and replaced the glasses to peer at the mailbox.
“A cherry bomb,” he said. His fingers danced over the internal keyboard of the pad as he took notes. “Kids. They picture this giant explosion and think they’ll film it and it will be the next viral video. Instead, there’s a boom, the door blows open, and that’s it.”
“The sound was loud enough for us,” Max said.
“They may have lit more than one bomb,” Bianchi said, peering into the box, plucking out the charred remains of explosives and placing them in an official-looking evidence envelope. “You know how to get the soot off?”
I nodded. “Swipe it with dish detergent and hose it down. If that doesn’t get it all, start over and scrub a bit with a nail brush or try a solution of TSP—trisodium phosphate. Where’s the nearest hardware store?”
“Head to the end of this road. Turn downhill at each intersection until you reach Foothill Expressway. Turn left and follow the signs to downtown. The hardware is on First Street.”
“You think kids did this?” I said.
Bianchi nodded.
“Why’s that? Have you had a rash of explosions like this? We didn’t see or hear any kids.” Once I’d started questioning him, it was hard to stop.
The young officer looked at me. His face turned pink. He opened his mouth and closed it. I wondered why someone who seemed so uncomfortable talking to people would chose a career that required interacting with the public.
“Umm,” he said, staring at the ground. “Maybe they had a remote? Like you use to ignite model rocket motors?” He walked behind the mailbox and pushed aside the grass. “Here,” he said, picking up a wire and following it until it disappeared among the overgrown shrubs that clogged the hillside between the house and the road.
“We’ll get the crime-scene guys back out here and let t
hem see if they can pick up any evidence the kids might have left.”
“Wouldn’t kids be kind of giddy if they were planning something like this?” I asked. “We didn’t see or hear anyone while we were walking down the hill.” I had two kids and I knew how noisy they could be, particularly when they were trying to be quiet.
Bianchi looked uncomfortable. Max came to his rescue.
“Maggie, let Officer Bianchi do his job,” Max said. “Let him ask the questions. He can check and see if there are records of other exploding mailboxes, I’m sure.”
“The only person I saw out here today was Dennis DeSoto,” I said, handing the officer the card Mr. Snooty had given me. “He was fussing around the mailbox about twenty minutes before it blew up. Maybe he saw someone.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, taking the card. “Please call me Paolo. And please ask your boys to keep an eye on social media for videos posted by kids bragging about blowing things up.”
I nodded, although I wasn’t sure how much good that would do. We hadn’t lived here long enough for David and Brian to acquire local friends. I thanked Paolo for his time, especially since he’d been up all night working on the other investigation—the one involving the body in our basement.
Max and I waved goodbye to Paolo and walked back up the driveway. I’d have been happier with a swift apprehension of the brats who’d done this—and would have loved to see them covered with soot and soap, scrubbing our mailbox. But Max and Jason Mueller were right. Tracking down troublemakers was a job for the police, not for a professional organizer or a family that had as much on its plate as we did.
“The police,” Max said, interrupting my thoughts. “Our new best friends.”
* * *
The rest of the day and the weekend passed in a flurry of trips to the hardware store for household-repair items and to the mall to buy Max a wardrobe and luggage appropriate for India. The hazardous-waste cleanup team came and went, but between the lingering smell of death and the harsh chemicals they’d used to sanitize the basement, we decided to stay in the barn until our furniture arrived. A few more days with the windows open would help the house air out. I hoped it would also help me shed the creepy feelings I had every time I thought of a man lying dead in our basement.
I was also fighting my dread of Max’s departure, though I tried to remain upbeat for his sake. I knew he felt guilty leaving us before we’d moved into the house, but we’d given up everything in Stockton to make this move, and we needed Max’s job to be a success. He was still the new guy, and it was too soon for him to be saying he wouldn’t do what the company asked.
I scratched at an itchy spot on my leg and shook off my negative feelings. I needed to focus on the good stuff that would happen this week. The moving van would arrive. The boys would start their new schools and we’d all start following a more predictable routine. I sighed. And one day soon, I’d be able to start my plans to launch Simplicity Itself 2.0, the Silicon Valley version.
Looking back on the weekend, I was glad I hadn’t been able to see the future.
Chapter 6
When you’re stuck waiting, consider the time a gift.
Make lists. Clean your purse. Clear your head.
From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald
Simplicity Itself Organizing Services
Tuesday, September 2, Morning
I woke up early Tuesday morning, now fully adjusted to camping on the barn floor. It was the first day of school. I glanced at my phone, looking for a text or email from Max to say he’d arrived safely in Bangalore.
I’d never felt so far from him. This separation, coming so soon after we’d made a move that we’d hoped would give us more time together, was going to be difficult. I needed to make the best of it, though. It was time to get on with my day. The boys and I could write him long emails tonight detailing the events of the first day of school.
I showered and donned my jeans, T-shirt, and grubby white sneakers. There were advantages to a limited wardrobe. I didn’t have to waste time deciding what to wear.
I woke up the kids. David jumped in the shower while Brian started his breakfast. I could tell Brian was nervous about starting a new school because he was quiet. Normally, he chattered through breakfast, barely pausing to take time to chew.
“Hey, Mom,” David said. He joined us dressed in a towel he’d wound around his waist. Drying his hair with another towel, he sat at the table and poured cereal into a bowl. There’d be time to lecture him on proper mealtime attire another day. Technically, we were still camping.
“Roll up your sleeping bags,” I said. “We’re back in the house tonight.”
“Unless we find another body,” Brian said, grinning. The cheeky little devil dodged the dish towel I threw at him.
Both boys dressed in record time and climbed in the car with Belle while I grabbed my phone, grocery bags, and shopping list. With no working refrigerator, I was afraid to stock more than a day’s worth of food.
After dropping David at the high school, Brian and I headed to the middle school, where I parked in the shade. Brian gave Belle a quick pat, made the American Sign Language symbol for I love you—our family code—and dashed out the door.
I let Belle out the back of the car, attached her leash, and gave her a quick stop-and-sniff moment at a nearby patch of grass. Belle finished her own morning-hygiene routine and tugged on the leash.
“We’ll walk later, Belle,” I said as I opened the rear hatch. She hopped in. I pulled out my tinted lip balm. Normally, I’d dress up a bit for the first day of school, but this year, grubby jeans and sneakers were my only option. I rolled down the windows to let cool air in for Belle, squared my shoulders, and marched off to the first PTA meeting of the year.
* * *
I squirmed on an uncomfortable metal chair and listened to the “Let’s Get School Off to a Good Start” meeting. I’d attended dozens of these back-to-school lectures, but this was the first time I’d been to one outdoors. Late summer and early fall in Stockton were too hot for outdoor meetings.
“Thank you for being here to support your students,” said Principal Harrier from her podium. “I’m sure we’re going to have a wonderful year. I’d like to introduce our new teachers . . .”
Blah-blah-blah. The meeting was the standard drill and I barely listened. By this time in my career as a mom, I could have given one of these presentations myself. My attention wandered off, but I dragged it back to Miss Harrier. I’d met her in February when we’d come to Orchard View to peek in the windows of the house before we had the keys. We’d made appointments ahead of time with both schools to preregister the boys and get their paperwork in order. At the high school, the meeting took all of fifteen minutes, including a tour of the campus.
In contrast, the middle-school meeting came to a halt when Miss Harrier realized the transfer of the property had not been finalized and we didn’t yet live in the district. I’d convinced her to register Brian anyway, on the basis of the preliminary paperwork I’d brought with me. I’d promised to deliver documentation from Pacific Gas and Electric on the first day of school. Why the gas company had the final word on who went to school where, I had no idea. Bureaucracy seldom makes sense.
I’d tried to drop off the form before school this morning, but the office had been packed with fidgety adolescents held in check by a diminutive woman dressed in canary yellow from head to toe. I’d decided to wait until she’d solved the kids’ problems before I bothered her with my paperwork.
Miss Harrier droned on. “I run a tight ship,” she said, slapping the leather cover of her iPad. “The rules are posted. Everyone has a copy. Every student and parent will sign forms stating they have read the rules and will be responsible for them. No excuses will be accepted. That holds true for homework, attendance, and for all forms.”
This woman should run a military academy. I looked at the other parents and wondered if I could become friends with anyone. I’d already seen and avoid
ed my snooty neighbor who had been shaking hands and passing out his cards this morning. What was it with the people in this town and their business cards? And what was making me so negative? Maybe the fact that Max wasn’t here.
I gave myself a mental slap and tried to focus on something other than self-pity.
Directly in front of me was a woman who looked like she’d stepped from the pages of a fashion magazine. Her hair was sleek, shining, and dark—almost as dark as her black business jacket and tight, straight skirt. She’d alleviated the black with a Chinese red scarf artfully draped over a white silk blouse. Her heels were black stilettos with red soles. I didn’t know the name of those shoes, but I knew they cost about as much as I’d spend on a trip to the vet with Belle and the cats. The suit screamed money and high fashion. I checked her off the potential friend list right away.
I sighed and slumped in my chair.
“There are cookies and coffee on the tables in the back. Please stop and pick up your packets of all the necessary forms,” concluded Miss Harrier.
Chairs clattered as parents gathered their belongings. A group of helpful dads folded chairs and stacked them on carts. I allowed myself another unattractive moment of self-pity, thinking that ordinarily, Max would have been there to join the other dads.
Miss Harrier slapped her hand against her iPad—a sound I was learning to hate. She barked for attention with a voice that would have done a drill sergeant proud. The crowd quieted, though a metal chair clanged when it fell to the pavement.
“I neglected to announce earlier that we are grateful to an anonymous donor”—she looked at my neighbor, Mr. Snooty DeSoto, who turned and smiled at the crowd—“for a contribution of record-breaking generosity to complete our all-season track. We appreciate all the donations we’ve received, but we are truly overwhelmed by this show of parental support.”
